


o'er the foam

by stylusmaleficarum (cygnes)



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 01:57:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15232851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cygnes/pseuds/stylusmaleficarum
Summary: Two lonely men meet on a terrace during a summer party. Plans are made on short notice.





	o'er the foam

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](https://stylusmaleficarum.tumblr.com/post/174230047307/jarrich-prompt-34-meeting-at-a-masquerade-ball) on tumblr for the prompt "meeting at a masquerade ball AU." Vaguely set in 1920s England, and probably best described by these tags on the original post: "the ball from _Rebecca_ as prelude to Highsmithian gay boat murder in the Mediterranean, feat. the Hacker Hostel guys as [Wodehouse's] Drones Club."

“I’ve been obliged to invite young Mr. Bighetti,” Gavin says. “You’ll want to keep an eye out for him, and whatever guests he brings along.”

Young Mr. Bighetti is, more properly, Sir Nelson, having recently inherited the baronetcy and neglected family seat. Gavin hates him on principle, as far as Jared understands it: his primacy in the hierarchy of the neighborhood has been usurped by a young upstart with no real connections to the area. Moreover, he has enlisted some other young men of his acquaintance to try to spruce the old house up, but there have been reports of rowdiness down by the shore.

Jared, for his part, doesn’t see the harm in a little rowdiness on one’s own property. And given the scale of Gavin’s annual summer party, his denouncing of it seems rather like the pot calling the kettle cookware. Though it’s not Jared’s place to say things like that.

“Of course, sir,” he says instead.

The summer party is (and has been, since at least Gavin’s grandfather’s time) the event of the season. It used to be called a ball, but as a concession to changing times and modern tastes, Gavin now calls it a party. It’s still a grand affair. Still fancy dress, in the old style: no expense is spared by those formally invited. Those not invited — those in lower social circles — are permitted on the property to observe the arrival of the guests. To marvel, really. To maintain the proper level of awe and then return home reminded of the grandeur of Belson House.

Gavin is Mephistopheles this year, doubleted and caped. His reasoning was that the Georgian courtier angle is over-done and he’d only look like a decaying fop anyway. Jared had dutifully said _of course not, sir_. But this is certainly more impressive. And it’s fodder for conversation. People who don’t know him well will be amused by his explanation of the costume. People who do know him well will be amused by its appropriateness.

The staff are not permitted to join in the fancy dress. For one thing, they would look shabby in comparison, and it would embarrass both them and the guests. (This is how Jared explains it apologetically to any new hires each year.) For another, probably more to the point, forbidding the staff to wear costumes prevents them from being mistaken for guests. It is a point of pride for Jared that the staff looks neat, respectable, formal enough to blend in to the decor. The best and most successful lives spent in service are invisible ones.

It’s near midnight by the time Jared finds a moment to slip away to the terrace for some fresh air. Just a minute or two, he thinks: there are people depending on him. Not that he doesn’t trust the rest of the staff, but he should be inside in case of any emergency. (It wouldn’t be the first time the summer party played host to an emergency.) He’s about to head back inside when a young man bursts through an open French door as though being pursued. The drink in his hand sloshes over his fingers. He doesn’t notice Jared as he catches his breath, and startles when Jared speaks.

“Are you alright?” Jared says.

“I — what? Yes. Mostly.” The young man is wearing a simple black domino mask and a slightly crumpled tuxedo. He tears the mask from his face. “You have no idea how relieved I am to see you.”

“Me?” Jared says. “Why?” The young man gestures vaguely. Jared shakes his head, uncomprehending.

“You’re the only other person I’ve seen who isn’t in fancy dress. Well, besides — besides the people I came with.” So this might be one of Sir Nelson’s friends, or even Sir Nelson himself. “It didn’t say anything about costumes on the invitation!”

“Well,” Jared says carefully, weighing his options, “the party is an annual affair, and its traditions are well-known in the area. I’m sure it was an oversight.”

“Probably for the best.” The young man sighs. “We would have had to, oh. I don’t know. Wear the dustcloths as chitons. A sorry bunch of Roman senators.”

“A wreath cut from a hedgerow instead of laurels for your Caesar,” Jared suggests. The young man laughs and the looks surprised, like he hadn’t expected to enjoy himself even a little. That won’t do, Jared thinks, with a touch of professional pride. “I hope you’ll forgive me for asking, but we haven’t been introduced. Are you Sir Nelson?”

“Me?” The young man glances behind him, back at the lights of the party. “No, of course not.”

“I beg your pardon,” Jared says.

“No, it’s fine,” the young man says. “It’s just — we’ve known each other since boarding school and no one’s ever confused us before. But you haven’t met him, so. You don’t know how ridiculous it is.” He barrels on, heedless of any offense caused, setting his drink down on the terrace balustrade and wiping his sticky hand on his suit jacket before holding it out for Jared to shake. “Richard Hendricks. That’s — I mean — that’s me. I’m Richard Hendricks.”

“Jared Dunn,” Jared says, shaking Richard’s hand. He doesn’t envy the valet or laundress who will have to see to that jacket later.

“Are you the estate agent?” Richard says.

“What makes you say that?” Jared says. Mr. Hoover is the estate agent. Last Jared saw, he was dressed as one of Rembrandt’s self-portraits, made obvious mostly by the large and floppy hat he wore.

“You must be local,” Richard says, “if you can comment on the traditions. Connected to Belson House, since you wanted to defend its owner over the invitations. Am I on the right track?”

“Your reasoning is sound,” Jared admits, “but you give me too much credit. I’m Mr. Belson’s steward.” Richard squints at him, shakes his head, takes up his drink again.

“That’s not — people had stewards in the middle ages. A steward, a castellan, a seneschal. No one has a steward now.”

“Mr. Belson would beg to differ, I think,” Jared says. Richard snorts, a little derisively and a little high-pitched. He seems immediately embarrassed by the sound. “I have most of the duties of a butler and an assistant rolled into one. I used to be Mr. Belson’s valet, but he decided I was put to better use elsewhere.” Gavin has no valet now. He looks after his own toilette and credits himself with being very forward-thinking.

“That sounds terrible,” Richard says, then winces at his own lack of tact. “I mean — it just sounds like a lot. For one person.”

“I keep busy,” Jared says. “What about you, Mr. Hendricks? What do you do?”

“Oh — Richard, please. I mean, call me Richard. Right now I’m trying to make sure the Abbey doesn’t fall down around Big Head’s ears,” Richard says. “Sir Nelson’s, I mean. It’s an old nickname, but he still only answers to ‘Sir Nelson’ about half the time. Had the shock of his life when his great-uncle deeded him the place. The old bastard hadn’t lived there in years, so it might have been, I don’t know. An act of spite.”

Jared ignores the part that involves calling the late Sir Andrew Bighetti a bastard. (Not that Jared ever met him — Sir Andrew had lived in London for the last decade of his life at least.) “Are you an architect, Richard?”

“Well, no, I have half a degree in engineering, but I sort of. Stopped going.” Ordinarily Jared would feel a pang of indignation at someone so flippantly disregarding an opportunity of that magnitude, but Richard looks so miserable when he says it that Jared really only feels sorry for him. “Big Head scraped by because his parents wanted him to, and Gilfoyle and Dinesh were trying to prove something about, I don’t know, colonists beating their oppressors on their own turf. Intellectually.”

“That seems like a noble endeavor,” Jared says.

“Well, haven’t met them yet. You might reconsider,” Richard says. He looks out into the dark, in the direction of the shore. The sound of waves is only faint from the house. “Do you know, the Abbey isn’t an Abbey at all? Just built on the foundations of one. That foundation is about the only part of the place that doesn’t need extensive repair. The roof could fall in on us, I keep thinking. Especially at night.”

“If it isn’t safe, you must stay in town,” Jared says.

“Big Head might or might not have the money to restore it,” Richard goes on as though he hadn’t heard Jared speak. Jared is used to that, used to being ignored, but from Richard it seems less willful and more a matter of distraction. “Some of his great-uncle’s money is tied up in — I don’t know. Big Head doesn’t know, which is really the problem. He’s talking about going abroad until his solicitor works it out. No use hiring contractors if he can’t pay them.” Richard looks at him again and smiles: a brief grim flash of teeth. “I’ve been thinking about stealing the boat.”

“Not very sporting,” Jared says. The smile disappears and Richard just looks tired.

“Someone would look for the boat, anyway,” Richard says. “Better to make my escape when we’re all out of the country, where none of us speak the language. Harder to rally the forces for a search party.”

“You don’t mean that,” Jared says.

“Don’t I?” Richard says. “Don’t you ever just want to leave your life behind?”

“When I was younger,” Jared says. “But as I got older — it takes a lot of energy, you know, trying to get out. And it hurts more every time you fail. So, sometimes, it’s better to learn to like where you are.”

“That’s —” Richard starts and then stops, shakes his head, bites his lip. “That’s terrible, Jared. Or — Mr. Dunn?”

“Jared is fine, thank you,” Jared says.

“Listen,” Richard says. He reaches for Jared with the hand not holding his glass and Jared steps back without thinking. “Why don’t we — just us, I mean — why don’t we leave tonight? Take the boat. It doesn’t matter. Big Head can buy another.”

“Richard, no,” Jared says. “We’ve just met,” (not as much of an obstacle as it should be) “and that’s a crime,” (slightly more of a deterrent) “and you have no way of knowing if you can trust me.”

“Should I not?” Richard says. “And what about you? Do you trust me? I might, I don’t know. Throw you overboard in open water.”

“Do you know how to sail?” Jared says. Richard shrugs, shakes his head. “Then you’d need me. But that’s not the point.”

“Right,” Richard says. “I’m sorry.” The silence on the terrace holds them for a moment, suspended between the murmur of the waves on one side and the noise of the party on the other. “We are going soon, though. Almost certainly. Big Head and Gilfoyle and Dinesh and me. You could come.” The idea is thrilling, if nonsensical. “You can’t be captain, since you don’t own the boat. But someone will have to keep us on course. And keep us from killing each other. There have been some near-misses at the Abbey. We’re going to Cannes or Monte Carlo or one of those places.”

“I’ll have to tender my resignation,” Jared says. “I owe Mr. Belson two weeks’ notice.” Though Gavin will probably chase him off the property the moment he tries to resign, maybe run him down with hounds. It might be worth it.

“I wonder if they’ve left without me,” Richard says.

“To Cannes?”

“No, back to the Abbey.” Richard looks back at the party. A little queasily, Jared thinks. “I can’t go back in there.”

“I’d be happy to walk you around front,” Jared says. ( _And back to the Abbey, too, if your friends have stood you up_ , Jared does not say.) In the drive, there is a small group of young men in tuxedos, still masked.

“There you are!” says a shaggy-haired man. “We thought you’d fallen into an oubliette somewhere.”

“How’d you fare in our little game?” says a slightly more forbidding bearded man.

“Oh, I forgot,” Richard says. He holds up his glass. “I have this, I guess.”

The bearded man pulls a pipe from one pocket and a tobacco pouch from the other. “Nicked these from the study. Dinesh?” One of the shorter men holds up a small bronze bust of Gavin. Jared remembers it well. Gavin had once thrown it into an eighteenth century French mirror. The frame had been saved, at least.

“Maybe we shouldn’t —” Richard says, looking over at Jared.

“Nelson?” the bearded man says.

The shaggy-haired man hefts a vase. “Well, I couldn’t find a glass, so I’ve been drinking out of this.”

“Fourteenth century,” Jared says. “From the Yuan dynasty.”

“Give it to Jian-Yang,” the man with the bronze bust (presumably Dinesh) says. “Something to remind him of home.”

“Who’s this?” the bearded man says. “Did you find an art historian?”

“Jared Dunn,” Richard answers for him. He points to the three men in turn: “Meet Gilfoyle,” (bearded) “Dinesh,” (the one with the bust, as Jared guessed) “and the esteemed Sir Nelson Bighetti.” Sir Nelson bows sloppily. Something splashes out the the vase. It looks like champagne, though it’s hard to tell. “Jared’s coming with us to Cannes. Maybe.”

“Cannes!” Dinesh says. “Don’t be absurd. We’re going to Monte. That’s where Jian-Yang said he was going.”

“ _Monte_ ,” Gilfoyle sneers. “As if you’ve been there. Call it Monte Carlo like everyone else. And isn’t Jian-Yang’s being there a reason _not_ to go?”

“We’re going somewhere southish, anyway,” Sir Nelson says. “It’ll be fun. Glad to have you with us.”

“ _Maybe_ , he said,” Dinesh points out. “Deserting your young wife, are you? Trying to decide whether she’s worth the trouble?”

“No!” Jared says, rather more vehement and more shocked-sounding than he means to be. “I mean, I wouldn’t. But I’m not quite at liberty, either.”

“Jared works for Mr. Belson,” Richard says. Gilfoyle eyes him suspiciously.

“Oh, no wonder you knew about the vase,” Sir Nelson says, unperturbed. “It was just a lark, seeing what we could get away with. We’ll give these back, if you think he’d miss them.”

“Looks like Richard won the game after all,” Dinesh says. “Stealing old Belson’s man must be worth more than just trinkets.” He tosses the bust over his shoulder, where it clunks against the bottom step leading to the front door.

“I’m not giving anything back,” Gilfoyle says.

“Well, that’s fine,” Jared says. The pipe isn’t even one of Gavin’s favorites. “I should get back inside. In case I’ve been missed. It was very nice meeting you all.” Nice is perhaps an overstatement.

“Not joining our merry band after all?” Dinesh says, a little mocking.

“Not tonight,” Jared says. “I’ll have to pack my things.”

“Carla’s driving up tomorrow, she’s got the best little motorcar you’ve ever seen,” Dinesh says, friendly again. “We’ll come round with her and pick you up. Go out in style, what?”

“Dinesh is in love with Carla or possibly her car,” Gilfoyle explains.

“Definitely the car,” Richard says. He smiles, but Jared thinks it’s not a smile for Carla or Dinesh. “I’ll see you tomorrow. We can bring you down to look at the boat.”

“Should have known you’d find yourself a cabin boy,” Gilfoyle says.

“Oh, do you sail?” Sir Nelson says, blithely ignoring Gilfoyle’s remark. “I used to, but I’ve lost the knack.”

“I worked on the docks for a little while, but my constitution was too delicate to keep it up,” Jared says. “Then when I was trying for a scholarship I fell in with a rowing team and was their cox for a few months. And, of course, I’ve sailed with Mr. Belson on his yacht.” To Cannes, in fact, more than once. He’d gotten terribly sunburnt. “He likes to steer, but I’ve done almost everything else.”

“You should have led with that,” Gilfoyle says. “But I admit, given our collective deficiency… it wouldn’t be the worst idea to have you along.” He holds out his hand for Jared to shake. “I suppose that makes you first mate to Big Head, at least until Richard stages a mutiny.”

“You’ll still be first mate,” Richard says. “Even if I do.”

“Ah, young love,” Dinesh says, clapping Jared on the back. “Well, see you tomorrow. I’ll defend you from Richard’s philandering ways, if it comes to that. Help preserve your honor.”

“It’s funny because Richard is terrible with girls,” Sir Nelson explains.

“And because I don’t have honor left to preserve,”Jared says. “It all works out.”

“You’ll have to tell us about that in the morning,” Gilfoyle says. “Or the afternoon.”

“Afternoon,” Dinesh agrees. He turns decisively and only stumbles a little. Gilfoyle follows, catching up to him and checking him on the shoulder. Sir Nelson waves, shrugs, and follows. Still holding the vase.

“So you can see why I wanted to run away by myself,” Richard says.

“We still can,” Jared says. “Once we’re there. Where no one knows us.” Richard smiles again, the one for him and no one else, and wanders off after his friends into the night.

In the morning, Jared knows, this will all seem like a terrible mistake. But the next morning (or the morning after) maybe it won’t. Maybe he’ll be glad to have left Belson House behind.


End file.
